Taras Bulba
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Nikolai Gogol
Nikolai Gogol was a Russian novelist and playwright born in what is now considered part of the modern Ukraine. By the time he was 15, Gogol worked as an amateur writer for both Russian and Ukrainian scripts, and then turned his attention and talent to prose. His short-story collections were immediately successful and his first novel, The Government Inspector, was well-received. Gogol went on to publish numerous acclaimed works, including Dead Souls, The Portrait, Marriage, and a revision of Taras Bulba. He died in 1852 while working on the second part of Dead Souls.
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Reviews for Taras Bulba
130 ratings3 reviews
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Nikolai Gogolis an enabler, and Taras Bulba is an enabling act. Are the Poles stupid? Yes they are, and considering this was written after the Tsar had completely subdued their shit, that is reprehensible. Are the Jews greedy? Natch, although they do help Taras Bulba out a bit, to be fair. Are the Turks heathen filth? They are in 1500, so in 1835, encroach, encroach, encroach. Are the Cossacks mighty and blameless, except for living in violent times? They are, and the Russian Tsar will rule the earth, and I haven't read Dead Souls but judging from this book Gogol is a total sycophantic suck.On the other hand: Medieval Russian cowboys. Theme RPG waiting to happen. Especially keeping in mind that last story, "Vengeance" whatever.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Russian imperialism-nationalism in the shape of Cossacks that rampaged the Steppes in a seemingly ceaseless struggle with perceived and made up enemies, the natural world and their brutal-romantic nature.At least that's Gogol's 1835 and 1842 (he rewrote after much criticism by Russian authorities of its 'Ukraine bias) version of an era when Tsarist 'expansionist' policies were again stirring with resultant oppression of other nationalities including Poles, Ukrainians, Tatars, Turks etc. as well as infamous, exploitative Pogroms on Jewish populations of the Pale of Settlement.So, what of the book itself: A very well crafted and thoroughly readable story of mayhem and reflection within a family torn apart by forbidden love, unbounded fealty and reckless patriotism.Gogol offers a vigorously and engagingly written version of, but no answers to the age old question of whether and at what cost to individuals and society 'love conquers all'?Thoroughly enjoyable read - the context of its origins have to be born in mind.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Nikolai Gogol wrote of the absurd in stories like Dead Souls and The Overcoat, and here he ostensibly finds that in the historical, for the utter disregard for peace and order that the 16th century Cossacks (living in what is now Ukraine), and their appetite for war and carousing, certainly appears absurd. Upon the return of his two sons from a seminary in Kiev, Taras Bulba spurs the Cossacks to start a war for no other reason than to gain battle experience for them. Amidst the requisite blood-drenched hacking that ensues, the younger son falls in love with one of the Polish women and changes sides, which is a betrayal. The battle rages and corpses pile up.What’s sad is Gogol isn’t saying ‘he who lives by the sword, dies by the sword’, or commenting on the idiocy of war. He’s glorying in Russian nationalism, putting these wars with the Catholic Poles to the north and the Muslim Turks and Tatars to the South in the light of a grand tradition of bravery stretching back to the Iliad (emphasized by references to that book, such as enemies outside of a sieged town being dragged across the battlefield by horses), and justifying some pretty brutal anti-Semitism. His romanticized view of the Cossacks is that their “endless skirmishes and restless life saved Europe from the unstoppable infidel attacks that threatened to overthrow her.”It’s a bleak picture of humanity. Violence and all manner of brutality abounds. The ‘uncivilized’ Cossacks are hell-bent on war. The ‘civilized’ Poles, aristocrats included, turn out for a public torture and execution in Warsaw. The author makes Taras Bulba and the Cossacks martyred heroes. It’s hard not to translate this view into present day hot spots around the world, Ukraine included, and feel sad that this is who we are. And yet it is a snapshot not only of the Cossacks from four hundred years ago, but the Russian impression of them two hundred years later, both of which were interesting to me, and I do like Gogol’s writing. Just a couple of quotes:“I want my vodka so clear and frothing that it hisses and whirls like it’s possessed!”And this battlefield advice:“If you are grazed by a bullet, or if a saber grazes your head or any other part of your body, then you must not pay too much attention to it. Just mix a measure of gunpowder with a cup of vodka, drink it down, and there’ll be no fever and all will be well. As for your wound, if it’s not too big just spit in your palm, rub some earth in it, and smear the dirt on the wound – that’ll dry it out.”
Book preview
Taras Bulba - Nikolai Gogol
Nikolai Gogol
Taras Bulba
New Edition
LONDON ∙ NEW YORK ∙ TORONTO ∙ SAO PAULO ∙ MOSCOW
PARIS ∙ MADRID ∙ BERLIN ∙ ROME ∙ MEXICO CITY ∙ MUMBAI ∙ SEOUL ∙ DOHA
TOKYO ∙ SYDNEY ∙ CAPE TOWN ∙ AUCKLAND ∙ BEIJING
New Edition
Published by Sovereign Classic
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This Edition
First published in 2014
Author: Nikolai Gogol
Editor: Max Bollinger
Copyright © 2014 Sovereign
Design and Artwork © 2014 www.urban-pic.co.uk
Images and Illustrations © 2014 Stocklibrary.org
All Rights Reserved.
ISBN: 9781910150481 (ebk)
Contents
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
CHAPTER I
Turn round, my boy! How ridiculous you look! What sort of a priest’s cassock have you got on? Does everybody at the academy dress like that?
With such words did old Bulba greet his two sons, who had been absent for their education at the Royal Seminary of Kief, and had now returned home to their father.
His sons had but just dismounted from their horses. They were a couple of stout lads who still looked bashful, as became youths recently released from the seminary. Their firm healthy faces were covered with the first down of manhood, down which had, as yet, never known a razor. They were greatly discomfited by such a reception from their father, and stood motionless with eyes fixed upon the ground.
Stand still, stand still! let me have a good look at you,
he continued, turning them around. How long your gaberdines are! What gaberdines! There never were such gaberdines in the world before. Just run, one of you! I want to see whether you will not get entangled in the skirts, and fall down.
Don’t laugh, don’t laugh, father!
said the eldest lad at length.
How touchy we are! Why shouldn’t I laugh?
Because, although you are my father, if you laugh, by heavens, I will strike you!
What kind of son are you? what, strike your father!
exclaimed Taras Bulba, retreating several paces in amazement.
Yes, even my father. I don’t stop to consider persons when an insult is in question.
So you want to fight me? with your fist, eh?
Any way.
Well, let it be fisticuffs,
said Taras Bulba, turning up his sleeves. I’ll see what sort of a man you are with your fists.
And father and son, in lieu of a pleasant greeting after long separation, began to deal each other heavy blows on ribs, back, and chest, now retreating and looking at each other, now attacking afresh.
Look, good people! the old man has gone man! he has lost his senses completely!
screamed their pale, ugly, kindly mother, who was standing on the threshold, and had not yet succeeded in embracing her darling children. The children have come home, we have not seen them for over a year; and now he has taken some strange freak—he’s pommelling them.
Yes, he fights well,
said Bulba, pausing; well, by heavens!
he continued, rather as if excusing himself, although he has never tried his hand at it before, he will make a good Cossack! Now, welcome, son! embrace me,
and father and son began to kiss each other. Good lad! see that you hit every one as you pommelled me; don’t let any one escape. Nevertheless your clothes are ridiculous all the same. What rope is this hanging there?—And you, you lout, why are you standing there with your hands hanging beside you?
he added, turning to the youngest. Why don’t you fight me? you son of a dog!
What an idea!
said the mother, who had managed in the meantime to embrace her youngest. Who ever heard of children fighting their own father? That’s enough for the present; the child is young, he has had a long journey, he is tired.
The child was over twenty, and about six feet high. He ought to rest, and eat something; and you set him to fighting!
You are a gabbler!
said Bulba. Don’t listen to your mother, my lad; she is a woman, and knows nothing. What sort of petting do you need? A clear field and a good horse, that’s the kind of petting for you! And do you see this sword? that’s your mother! All the rest people stuff your heads with is rubbish; the academy, books, primers, philosophy, and all that, I spit upon it all!
Here Bulba added a word which is not used in print. But I’ll tell you what is best: I’ll take you to Zaporozhe (1) this very week. That’s where there’s science for you! There’s your school; there alone will you gain sense.
And are they only to remain home a week?
said the worn old mother sadly and with tears in her eyes. The poor boys will have no chance of looking around, no chance of getting acquainted with the home where they were born; there will be no chance for me to get a look at them.
Enough, you’ve howled quite enough, old woman! A Cossack is not born to run around after women. You would like to hide them both under your petticoat, and sit upon them as a hen sits on eggs. Go, go, and let us have everything there is on the table in a trice. We don’t want any dumplings, honey-cakes, poppy-cakes, or any other such messes: give us a whole sheep, a goat, mead forty years old, and as much corn-brandy as possible, not with raisins and all sorts of stuff, but plain scorching corn-brandy, which foams and hisses like mad.
Bulba led his sons into the principal room of the hut; and two pretty servant girls wearing coin necklaces, who were arranging the apartment, ran out quickly. They were either frightened at the arrival of the young men, who did not care to be familiar with anyone; or else they merely wanted to keep up their feminine custom of screaming and rushing away headlong at the sight of a man, and then screening their blushes for some time with their sleeves. The hut was furnished according to the fashion of that period—a fashion concerning which hints linger only in the songs and lyrics, no longer sung, alas! in the Ukraine as of yore by blind old men, to the soft tinkling of the native guitar, to the people thronging round them—according to the taste of that warlike and troublous time, of leagues and battles prevailing in the Ukraine after the union. Everything was cleanly smeared with coloured clay. On the walls hung sabres, hunting-whips, nets for birds, fishing-nets, guns, elaborately carved powder-horns, gilded bits for horses, and tether-ropes with silver plates. The small window had round dull panes, through which it was impossible to see except by opening the one moveable one. Around the windows and doors red bands were painted. On shelves in one corner stood jugs, bottles, and flasks of green and blue glass, carved silver cups, and gilded drinking vessels of various makes—Venetian, Turkish, Tscherkessian, which had reached Bulba’s cabin by various roads, at third and fourth hand, a thing common enough in those bold days. There were birch-wood benches all around the room, a huge table under the holy pictures in one corner, and a huge stove covered with particoloured patterns in relief, with spaces between it and the wall. All this was quite familiar to the two young men, who were wont to come home every year during the dog-days, since they had no horses, and it was not customary to allow students to ride afield on horseback. The only distinctive things permitted them were long locks of hair on the temples, which every Cossack who bore weapons was entitled to pull. It was only at the end of their course of study that Bulba had sent them a couple of young stallions from his stud.
Bulba, on the occasion of his sons’ arrival, ordered all the sotniks or captains of hundreds, and all the officers of the band who were of any consequence, to be summoned; and when two of them arrived with his old comrade, the Osaul or sub-chief, Dmitro Tovkatch, he immediately presented the lads, saying, See what fine young fellows they are! I shall send them to the Setch (2) shortly.
The guests congratulated Bulba and the young men, telling them they would do well and that there was no better knowledge for a young man than a knowledge of that same Zaporozhian Setch.
Come, brothers, seat yourselves, each where he likes best, at the table; come, my sons. First of all, let’s take some corn-brandy,
said Bulba. God bless you! Welcome, lads; you, Ostap, and you, Andrii. God grant that you may always be successful in war, that you may beat the Musselmans and the Turks and the Tatars; and that when the Poles undertake any expedition against our faith, you may beat the Poles. Come, clink your glasses. How now? Is the brandy good? What’s corn-brandy in Latin? The Latins were stupid: they did not know there was such a thing in the world as corn-brandy. What was the name of the man who wrote Latin verses? I don’t know much about reading and writing, so I don’t quite know. Wasn’t it Horace?
What a dad!
thought the elder son Ostap. The old dog knows everything, but he always pretends the contrary.
I don’t believe the archimandrite allowed you so much as a smell of corn-brandy,
continued Taras. Confess, my boys, they thrashed you well with fresh birch-twigs on your backs and all over your Cossack bodies; and perhaps, when you grew too sharp, they beat you with whips. And not on Saturday only, I fancy, but on Wednesday and Thursday.
What is past, father, need not be recalled; it is done with.
Let them try it know,
said Andrii. Let anybody just touch me, let any Tatar risk it now, and he’ll soon learn what a Cossack’s sword is like!
Good, my son, by heavens, good! And when it comes to that, I’ll go with you; by heavens, I’ll go too! What should I wait here for? To become a buckwheat-reaper and housekeeper, to look after the sheep and swine, and loaf around with my wife? Away with such nonsense! I am a Cossack; I’ll have none of it! What’s left but war? I’ll go with you to Zaporozhe to carouse; I’ll go, by heavens!
And old Bulba, growing warm by degrees and finally quite angry, rose from the table, and, assuming a dignified attitude, stamped his foot. We will go to-morrow! Wherefore delay? What enemy can we besiege here? What is this hut to us? What do we want with all these things? What are pots and pans to us?
So saying, he began to knock over the pots and flasks, and to throw them about.
The poor old woman, well used to such freaks on the part of her husband, looked sadly on from her seat on the wall-bench. She did not dare say a word; but when she heard the decision which was so terrible for her, she could not refrain from tears. As she looked at her children, from whom so speedy a separation was threatened, it is impossible to describe the full force of her speechless grief, which seemed to quiver in her eyes and on her lips convulsively pressed together.
Bulba was terribly headstrong. He was one of those characters which could only exist in that fierce fifteenth century, and in that half-nomadic corner of Europe, when the whole of Southern Russia, deserted by its princes, was laid waste and burned to the quick by pitiless troops of Mongolian robbers; when men deprived of house and home grew brave there; when, amid conflagrations, threatening neighbours, and eternal terrors, they settled down, and growing accustomed to looking these things straight in the face, trained themselves not to know that there was such a thing as fear in the world; when the old, peacable Slav spirit was fired with warlike flame, and the Cossack state was instituted—a free, wild outbreak of Russian nature—and when all the river-banks, fords, and like suitable places were peopled by Cossacks, whose number no man knew. Their bold comrades had a right to reply to the Sultan when he asked how many they were, Who knows? We are scattered all over the steppes; wherever there is a hillock, there is a Cossack.
It was, in fact, a most remarkable exhibition of Russian strength, forced by dire necessity from the bosom of the people. In place of the original provinces with their petty towns, in place of the warring and bartering petty princes ruling in their cities, there arose great colonies, kurens (3), and districts, bound together by one common danger and hatred against the heathen robbers. The story is well known how their incessant warfare and restless existence saved Europe from the merciless hordes which threatened to overwhelm her. The Polish kings, who now found themselves sovereigns, in place of the provincial princes, over these extensive tracts of territory, fully understood, despite the weakness and remoteness of their own rule, the value of the Cossacks, and the advantages of the warlike, untrammelled life led by them. They encouraged them and flattered this disposition of mind. Under their distant rule, the hetmans or chiefs, chosen from among the Cossacks themselves, redistributed the territory into military districts. It was not a standing army, no one saw it; but in case of war and general uprising, it required a week, and no more, for every man to appear on horseback, fully armed, receiving only one ducat from the king; and in two weeks such a force had assembled as no recruiting officers would ever have